


The Language of Gifts is the Language of Deals

by Bagheera



Category: Once Upon a Time (2011)
Genre: Christmas, Cooking, Fae & Fairies, Gen, Sidhe, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bagheera/pseuds/Bagheera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma follows Mr Gold into the forest on Christmas, and is forced to make another deal. (Spoilers up to "The Price of Gold")</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language of Gifts is the Language of Deals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shadowkitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowkitty/gifts).



> This is a treat written for your request in Once Upon a Time, a story about Emma and Gold and her frustration with his obsession with deals.
> 
> Writing for an ongoing show is always a bit tricky, and I guess my theories re: Mr Gold are going to be jossed once we find out more about his backstory. This fic is based on the assumption that Gold isn't opposed to Emma coming to Storybrooke and getting involved with fairy-tale business, and that he remembers his past as Rumpelstiltskin. It also assumes that Rumpelstiltskin is some sort of magical/fairy creature (sidhe or whatever you want to call it) and that the winter solstice has some meaning for him.

Emma entered the kitchen, and felt her jaw drop a little. This must be what Dorothy felt like after leaving Kansas. The hallway had been as gloomy and unwelcoming as the shop, and she’d expected the rest of the house to be like that, but the kitchen was bright and warm and homely, and smelled of sugar and spice and everything nice.

“Wow,” she said. “Did someone rob Betty Crocker?”

Gold ignored her and pulled out a comfy looking chair. There was being a gentleman and being a little too gentlemanly, and as always, Gold erred on the smarmy side of things by adding a little flourish to his gesture. “Sit, my dear.”

Normally, Emma would have told him she preferred to stand. But the unexpected kitchen had weakened her defenses, and Emma sat down at the kitchen table, feeling vaguely self-conscious about the puddles of melting snow her boots left on the perfectly clean floor.

The table was covered in a checkered cloth, and there were neat little salt and pepper shakers, plus a wreath of holly with bright red berries. Emma couldn’t remember when she’d last seen real holly.

“What now?” she asked.

“Now,” Gold said, flashing her one of those smiles that made her skin crawl, “you’ll have to be a little patient while I cook.”

“You cook.”

“I cook,” he confirmed, turning around towards the stove, “and I bake. I’ve even tried my hand at brewing.”

“And this,” Emma said, gesturing at the kitchen, “is all you? You don’t have a house-keeper hidden away?”

“No servants,” he said confirmed, “it’s all home-spun.”

He set down a cup of steaming hot chocolate and a plate of cookies in front of her, then he picked up a big wooden spoon and lifted the lid of one of the pots on the stove. Emma felt like a child accepting candy from a stranger, but the hot chocolate was irresistible after her walk through the forest. She took a sip, and nearly couldn’t suppress a groan of delight. The cookies were even better, melting into buttery sweetness on her tongue. She felt a sudden stab of envy when she thought of her own cooking skills, and Henry, and how much she wanted to be a good mother. The mayor was probably perfect in the kitchen, on top of everything else.

Gold was humming to himself over his pots, looking as relaxed as she had ever seen him.

“You wanted to know why I followed you,” Emma said, surprising herself.

He froze, then after a moment, he continued with his cooking. “Indeed,” he said. “I know you’re of a naturally curious disposition, but this is a strange night to be wandering alone in the forest.”

Her first instinct was to lie. But as she searched for a convincing reason to take a walk in the forest after dark on Christmas in the middle of a snow storm, she came up with nothing.

“I hate Christmas,” Emma said. There it was. The honest truth she hadn’t dared to tell anyone in Storybrooke. With its perfect white snow and perfect little Christmas trees on every lawn, and Mary Margaret’s enthusiasm for decorating with her class, and Henry’s happy talk of presents, Emma just couldn’t bring herself to spoil the mood by being her usual grinchy self.

“I hate it even more than birthdays. It sucks to be alone on your birthday, but at least everyone else isn’t celebrating on your birthday. But Christmas is just… it’s everywhere. When you’re alone on Christmas, people know you don’t have anybody.”

Damn it. Why was she telling Gold of all people? She didn’t like him, she didn’t trust him, and he probably didn’t care one bit. He wasn’t even responding, as if his pots and pans were more interesting that her whining.

“Henry’s with his mother,” Emma said. “She doesn’t let him out of her sight. And… and I don’t know what to get him as a present. I just don’t. I’m his mother, but I don’t know enough about him to give him a proper present.”

“Ah,” Gold said. “It would have to be the perfect present. One to make up for all the Christmases you weren’t there – all the Christmases you yourself didn’t have parents to give you presents. Isn’t that right?”

Emma stared at him. He had turned around, and directed another sickly, crooked smile at her.

“Yes,” she said flatly. “How – “

“Oh, I know about gifts, Miss Swan. There used to be a time when people would give _me_ the most wonderful gifts around this time of year. These days… well, these days I’m a giver of gifts.”

“You’re a pawnbroker,” Emma glowered. “Hardly makes you Santa.”

“Perhaps not,” he mused, “although I do have a knack for knowing just what to give to people when they need it most.”

“Money.”

Gold chuckled. “Hardly ever. People need shelter, they need food and warmth and family, they need a son or a daughter or a prince on a white horse. Sometimes they need a dragon to slay or a curse to break. But money… money is less than a fairy tale. Nobody needs it for its own sake.”

There had been a few moments since coming to Storybrooke that Emma had almost gone out and asked someone whether they were a character from a fairy tale. But so far she had always squashed the urge, telling herself that she wasn’t a little kid with over-active fantasy. This time, she almost didn’t hold back. It was like Gold was deliberately teasing her with all those hints – and he was looking at her right now as if he knew exactly what she was thinking and _wanted_ her to ask.

Probably so he could mock her.

“Money moves the world,” Emma countered. “And I don’t believe for a moment that you’re the kind of person who doesn’t love money.”

He hummed his assent. “It’s a shaker and producer, you’re right about that. But love… no, it’s a little more complicated than that. It may sound strange, but sometimes, I feel like money is my next of kin.”

Christ on a pogo-stick, but he was a major creep.

“I don’t want to shatter any illusions, but everything you say sounds strange,” Emma told him. “That’s why I followed you into the forest. There’s something shady about you, and I want to know what. And now I get to ask a question. What were you doing in the middle of the forest on Christmas Eve? How the hell does one control bears and wolves?”

It made no sense, of course. But Emma still couldn’t find another explanation for the big black wolf and the three bears that had nearly had her for dinner. They’d shown up, cornered her, and hadn’t let her go until Gold told them so – after she had promised him another favor. And the fox… the fox had rubbed its head against Gold’s legs like a housecat. When she thought about it now, it seemed so strange that she couldn’t be sure that she had really seen what she thought she had seen. But half an hour ago, it had all seemed perfectly natural. As if it ought to be that way.

“Perhaps I feed them in winter,” Gold said airily. “Even wild animals can become quite tame when you feed them.” He threw a sly glance over his shoulder. “Or perhaps there are times – times like midwinter – when I feel like the beasts of the forest are closer kin than money.”

“Bullshit,” Emma said, but it sounded weak even to her own ears. Some part of her that was pure instinct believed Gold. It was the same part that had made her feel ice cold and terrified when he’d stepped out of the shadows between the trees and joined the wild things of the forest.

There was an odd pause before he laughed, and turned around to put a big pot of stew onto the table. “Of course. I’m a civilized man these days. Well-respected in this town… a man of wealth and taste.”

He winked, and Emma snorted. For a moment, there was companionable amusement in the air, and Emma felt silly for ever casting him as the villain in this story. Henry with his fairy-tales must be rubbing off on her – Gold was a small-town pawnbroker, possibly a crook, definitely a creep, but Emma was a big city girl, and she was pretty sure she had met worse.

“So,” she said, after her first spoonful of delicious stew, “what’s your favor going to be this time?”

He looked startled, lowering his spoon and blinking at her. She couldn’t tell if it was an act or genuine surprise. “This is my favor. Why did you think I asked you to come here?”

Emma frowned. “Wait. This isn’t some sort of indecent proposal deal, is it? Because I’m telling you, if it’s that or bears, I’m choosing bears.”

Gold was maybe a tiny little bit on the charming side of smarmy, but not like that. Definitely not like that.

He touched his chest right over his heart. “You wound me, Miss Swan – _Indecent Proposal_! What a foolish movie. Once you make a deal, you don’t go back on it.”

“You do know that this obsession with deals is bordering on the compulsive, right? Besides, what are you going to do if I don’t return that favor? No court is ever going to back you on this, and trust me, I know about deals.”

“I know.” His expression turned extremely fond. “You’re a bail bonds collector. Of all the professions you could have chosen, you picked the one that’s all about making people stick to their deals. It’s one of the reasons I like you so much.”

Emma made a noise of frustration. There was no arguing with a madman – it was like trying to convince Henry that people weren’t fairy tale characters. Quite possibly Gold was so good at his job because he truly believed he had the right and the power to enforce any deal he made. People were just swept away by his insane convictions.

“You make a good stew, for a madman,” Emma said into the awkward silence.

A normal person would have taken offence. But Gold proved her right by accepting the insult as though it was a given.

“It takes someone who has gone hungry to appreciate good food,” he said, a shadow passing over his face. For a second, he seemed far away in his thoughts, and the place where he went must have been an unpleasant one. Then he gave a shrug that looked more like a twitch and looked at her again. “Another reason I like you.”

Emma wished he would stop saying that. “If you like me so much, why don’t you stop coercing me into having dinner with you?”

He got up and rubbed his hands. “Because there’s one more thing to do before you may go!”

Sometimes, Emma found it extremely calming to remind herself of all the ways she could cause a man excruciating pain without using a weapon.

“And what’s that?”

“I’ve got a shop full of treasures, and you have a little boy who needs a present,” Gold said. “You understand deals, Miss Swan, but it’s time you learned about gifts.”

Emma got up as well, crossing her arms. “And what will I owe you?”

He patted her shoulder in an almost fatherly way. “See?” he asked happily. “You speak my language perfectly.”

Emma shook her head and let him lead her back into the twilight of his shop. “Just because I get the method of your madness, it doesn’t mean I share it.

“We’ll see about that,” he chuckled, “we’ll see.”


End file.
